DA BOIS A STRGL EDT

DABOISASTRGLEDT – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev

Yo, DABOIS are back.

Today, I’ve got a new story for you—well, not exactly new for me, but definitely one I haven’t shared yet. A little revelation about those all-too-familiar, soul-draining daily difficulties.

This week’s blog is about work. Specifically, a job I had for about four months—just riding the wave while it lasted. It wasn’t a hard job by nature, but it was hard to care about it. Not because the tasks were demanding, but because… well, I barely had any tasks at all—but a very demanding, yet quite confused boss.

You know how it usually goes when you start a new job: you expect a learning curve, some guidance, maybe even a proper onboarding. Mine felt like an endless learning curve that never started properly. I had to absorb information on the fly, develop skills I didn’t previously have—and never used since—, and build relationships with coworkers who clearly had no intention of building anything… and collect checks while mocking at each other.

None of that really happened—apart from the coworkers part.

Sure, I learned a few things—in theory. But two weeks after quitting, I’d already forgotten most of it. Why? Because I was never truly introduced to the actual work process. And to be honest, I didn’t have much desire to do the job in the first place. Maybe in the first two weeks, I tried to convince myself it was worth the effort. But once I saw how things really worked—or didn’t—I was just waiting. Waiting to leave, or to be told I wasn’t the right fit.

The money? Not bad. Especially for doing almost nothing. In hindsight, the job might’ve even been a dream—except the boss was a know-it-all micromanager with a god complex. Then again, I guess that’s normal when you’re pulling in a few million a year off people who don’t get contracts, benefits, or protections—if you don’t count verbal agreements.

Work’s a grind, but some jobs? Straight-up scam—regardless of what type of scam. LA, ’22, I’m a “solar engineer” for four months—sounds dope, right? Nah, it’s a Bulgarian-run circus, and I’m the undocumented clown. Cash under the table, $200 a day—no matter if I worked five or eight hours—, crawling through mouldy muck while my boss flexes his Rivian and brags about his side chicks. But “work” might be too strong a word.

Inspired by my own chaos—no fancy quote, just me—I’m spilling the tea on this soul-sucking gig.

You’ve been in your own job traps, too—I bet my life upon it.

Work’s a hustle, but you gotta dodge the scams to find your truth—if you’re looking for it, of course.

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But before we dive any deeper, let me say: welcome back. Whether you’re a longtime reader or new to this space, thank you for giving your time to walk through these experiences with me. I hope that, with time, DABOISASTRGLEDT can grow into a space filled with more understanding, more forgiveness—and above all, more honest effort.

So, BOIS and GALS, don’t stress—you’re not the only ones stuck in a loop of underwhelming jobs and unclear futures. We’re all in this mess together.

And if what I write makes you stop and think about your own life—even just a little more than usual—then I consider my job done. If you’re curious to read more, here’s a link to the last blog: I Was A F*cking Kid—But Was I…

If you like the type of content I’m sharing here, you can definitely check out my daily newsletter for some more interesting twists about different aspects of life (and some free goodies) – Subscribe to My Newsletter.

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European tour checkpoint: My dad and I just finished exploring Italy—what a country, man. We also climbed Europe’s highest peak—Mont Blanc. After that, we pedestrianised ourselves through the streets of Bern, and just now, we are entering La France through

Now, back to the struggles that come with a job.

Getting Hired

It was late fall of 2022, and I had just moved to LA. I’d already been in the city for a month, still jobless—not easy when your papers have expired. Just a heads-up to anyone considering something similar: I’m not saying don’t do it. Quite the opposite. Just know what you’re walking into. This is coming from someone who’s already walked barefoot over the coals.

Through a Facebook group for Bulgarians in LA, I met a guy—a genuinely helpful one, the kind you rarely meet. I’m still damn grateful for how much time and energy he gave me. He didn’t owe me anything. He even came with me when I bought my car. And listen, I’ve always been sceptical of people—especially Bulgarians. That’s just how I grew up. But this guy made me believe we’re not all lost causes. I’m not saying he’s a saint, but he’s definitely not one of those people who’ll squeeze every bit out of you and then toss you aside the second you’re no longer useful.

One December evening—early in the month, I think—he called me up. Told me about a couple of places that were hiring. The businesses were Bulgarian-owned, so they’d likely understand my situation and take me in without asking too many questions. One of the places was the same solar panel installation company.

He connected me with the brother-in-law of the owner. After about a 30-minute phone call, we agreed to give it a shot. A test period. Nothing official yet—just a toe in the water.

Still, even from the very beginning, something felt off. It took longer than expected to actually start. Things dragged on. Disorganized. Last-minute calls.

There’s a classic joke—but very true—referred to as “Bulgarian work.”

But I was stuck. I didn’t want to spend all day delivering food. Or maybe I just didn’t have the energy for that hustle anymore—to be honest, I never did.

So I said yes.

The Working Process

I, who’s never touched a wire or climbed a roof? Yeah, right. First day’s Christmas Eve, handing out tools, sweeping dirt, dodging death traps while the boss’s brother-in-law warns, “Don’t get hurt, I ain’t got a plan.”

Originally, I was supposed to be paid $150 per day for the training period, but to his credit, he bumped it up to $200 each, saying it was the holidays and I probably needed the cash. He was decent like that—he understood my situation, and maybe he was just naturally generous. But I also caught him at times treating others around him… less than kindly. And I’m not talking about money. More like those little moments where character shows in silence.

Just when I thought I was now a part of the company, the New Year came and went. Then a week. Then two. And I was still at home—not even delivering food this time… just ordering it. So I gave him a call to check in. According to him, there was plenty of work to go around, daily, even. But clearly, not for me.

Then, out of nowhere—on January 15th—I got a call from an unknown number. I picked up.

“What’s up, Ivanielka! How are you, my boy? Are we gonna work?”

I had no idea who it was. Who calls and starts like that without even introducing themselves?

When I asked who was calling, the voice on the other end seemed almost offended.

“What do you mean, who is it? Don’t you recognise me? I’m your boss!”

Well, that was news to me. I told him I had no idea who he was and reminded him that his brother-in-law told me I’d already been hired.

“Nah, you didn’t even pass an interview with me,” he said. “I need to make sure you’re a good fit, my boy. Only then you‘re hired.”

That was… confusing. But whatever—he gave me a time and place for a meeting. Called it an interview.

It was the strangest interview I’ve ever been to. If you could even call it that. He asked me two questions:

1. Do I want to work?
2. Do I think I can do the job?

I mean—sure—those are technically the most important questions. But still, you’d expect a little more vetting. Or at least an introduction longer than a cold call.

Anyway, he took me to lunch at Mendocino Farms—great food, by the way—, and spent the entire time talking about himself—his problems, his kids from multiple women, the number of women he sleeps with monthly… all while his current wife takes care of the kids at home.

Apparently, his whole family—mom, dad, siblings—knows about his lifestyle and doesn’t care. Probably because he supports all of them. Only the wives’s kept in the dark—or maybe she’s just pretending for the financial comfort.

After lunch, he let me ride in his Rivian—his electric pickup—and showed me how fast it goes, flooring it to 60 mp/h (100 km/h) on a boulevard near the mall. He was flexing, living his version of the American Dream. But honestly, I wasn’t impressed. If you’re in your forties and still chasing validation like that… something’s off. Not judging—just saying.

So what do you BOIS and GALS think?

In total, I worked 31 days across the four months I was “employed” there. Learned next to nothing. March—my busiest month—was completely unpaid. I tried contacting him. No response—but we will get to that later.

I got tossed around from role to role. Sometimes I was given documents to deliver, only to find out the addresses or contacts were wrong. Other times, I waited for municipal inspectors to show up—five separate days, if I recall—and only once did someone actually come. The rest of the time? I’d sit in my Toyota, getting high, lunch balanced on my stomach, watching something on my phone and wondering, “How the hell did I end up like this?”

I was also sent to “site eval” jobs—which, yes, is short for “evaluation,” but they just used the term like everyone knew it. I’d go with the boss’s dad, who treated me like his grandson—never letting me do anything, just explaining while the Mexican workers did the actual job. They looked at me sideways, rightfully so—I wasn’t pulling much weight. At most, I carried some panels or cleaned up—we rarely had more than fifty panels per house anyway.

Same deal with another guy training me on evals. He’d just say, “Look here. Hop… hop.” Super clear, right?

There was one other guy—the co-founder, who didn’t have the charisma of the boss but was clearly the brains of the operation. A bit odd, maybe, but brilliant. He reminded me of my dad—analytical, methodical, and always looking to improve the project beyond what was required. He’d take me along, mumbling instructions to himself, occasionally turning to ask questions like a teacher mid-lecture, making sure I was paying attention. It wasn’t high math, and I usually got it right—unless I was staring at my phone.

To be fair, I did work sometimes.

Four times, I was sent out with a dude doing rewiring, system start-ups, and grounding. He was about 6’6” (2 meters) and kept drilling me on life and women while I handed him tools. My job? Crawl under the house to run grounding cable. He could’ve done it—had done it before—but it’s easier to send the new kid into the crawlspace while you enjoy a smoke break.

I didn’t mind. Except it was wet and smelled like mould—like some women (first part is okay, the second… yikes). I’d suit up in something that looked like a beekeeper’s outfit, crawl through the muck, grab the cable, and crawl back out—feeling like a cadet in Full Metal Jacket… except one of the ones who never makes it to the draft.

A few weeks before Roy and I left for Ocean City, Maryland, he was also looking for side work. I offered to bring him in. What was there to lose? He worked eight days. Got paid for two. Guess by whom? The brother-in-law again. He called us in the last two days before we left, gave us some decent pay so we wouldn’t leave completely broke.

Like I said, there was some good in him.

And that Palm Desert trip. It was me and Roy watching the beautiful—and dry—vast landscape of SoCal. Two and a half hour drive, for a two-day job that’s DOA: one house ain’t ready, the other’s got a crew who’s like, “Who the fuck are you?”

Epictetus said, “You have power over your mind, not outside events.” This gig’s chaos, but my mind’s mine. I’m half-assing it, BOIS and GALS, waiting to bounce.

I only wish we had tickets for Indian Wells ATP —the trip was a big, big misunderstanding… at least we could’ve watched some world-class tennis.

So, yeah, the cash pay was $200 flat, whether I’m crawling under houses or twiddling my thumbs.

Don’t Let the Door Hit You On the Way Out

Eventually, I had to be tested—my so-called skills had to be put to use. According to the boss, I worked too slowly. It was maybe the second time I was left alone using the equipment. That’s not an excuse—I’ve never claimed to be much of anything—but they barely gave me a chance to work, which made me lose interest… and wait for the moment to leave, like I said at the start.

He decided I wasn’t right for panel installation and sent me back to his brother-in-law. The guy turned out to be just like the boss’s father. Actually, a lot like my father, too: doesn’t tolerate slow work or any method different from his own. The moment something wasn’t moving fast enough, he’d frown and take over—he’d rather finish it all himself, head home, stretch out on the couch, and have a drink and a snack. Fair enough.

Strangely, the co-owner and another colleague vouched for me. Told the boss I was doing a good job. Said I could do the site evaluation jobs—they were taking so many projects that they needed at least five years to clear them out… and he couldn’t stop himself from seeking more. Anyway, how they came to that conclusion—I’ve got no idea. But they let me do it.

That’s when I found out I needed some official documents that I’m a representative of the company, so I can obtain documents from the cities—I wasn’t even hired, man. So they came up with this fake-ass “official” doc—lady at the desk looks at me, “This isn’t real.” The boss blames me, says I’m picking fights.

Epictetus would’ve smirked: control your reaction, not the clown show.

I didn’t respond. Honestly, I didn’t know how to tell him his whole operation was hanging by a thread. Or maybe I did, but I needed the job. I had no other option at that point.

Eventually, they got me a real document. I started going to sites to do the “evals” and send emails to our panel supplier—type, quantity, layout. But I ran into another issue. They hadn’t given me access to the system that lets you virtually place panels and test their efficiency. So I had to use Google Maps screenshots, draw on them with Photoshop Express on my phone, and guess where the panels might go. Good thing the owners didn’t see that—I’d be the one blamed, even though I was just doing what I could with what I had.

I asked for access to that system multiple times. Never got it. No idea why—they were the ones sending me out to do this.

Some days I’d pass three sites. Other times, barely two. Mostly because the boss had no logistical sense—he’d send me to a site in Northridge, then another in Long Beach. If you don’t know LA geography, Google it. It’s not small.

At one point, I had worked fifteen days without getting paid.

Then, out of the blue, he called me to “settle the accounts.” I went to meet him. Naturally, he wasn’t there—I waited over an hour watching Bulgarian news with his mom and dad. It felt like I was back in my village with the grandparents. They offered me food and sweets, which I didn’t know how to politely refuse—so I said I’m sick.

He finally arrived, counted my money, and I brought up the raise we’d talked about. We had agreed that once I had experience, I’d earn $300 a day. I don’t know if I was experienced, but I was doing sites solo and submitting projects that got approved.

He just winked and said with a smirk, “Ivache, it’s early to talk about a raise, my boy.”

That was basically it. The last time I saw him was before Roy and I left for the OC. He sent me to a few more addresses after that. Most had the usual problems—missing paperwork, unconfirmed reservations, or some other kind of mess.

In the beginning, he’d call me like the world was about to end. If I didn’t pick up, I’d get a text like:

“When I call, you answer. DO YOU HEAR? I don’t care if you’re sleeping, fucking, eating, or shitting. IS THAT CLEAR?”

But near the end, when I started calling him—to settle the final payment—he ghosted me. No replies. I tried reaching out through his brother-in-law. Nothing.

I had a lot I wanted to say to him. But I never saw him again. He didn’t want to talk either.

Maybe he was pissed I was leaving. I get it. His team had taken time out of their day to train some random stranger who just bailed. But I did tell his brother-in-law I had a stable job opportunity elsewhere. I said I saw more room to grow. That didn’t exactly turn out to be true… but the job was better than his.

DABOIS, have you fallen for a job’s hook, too—the kind of promises that stink like cheap cologne? What’s the shadiest/weirdest gig you’ve worked?

Still Grateful, But Confused

Despite everything, I’m grateful to have gotten the job.

My dad told me I shouldn’t have bothered with them in the first place—but I did learn a few things I probably wouldn’t have picked up otherwise. I still can’t fix electricity to save my life—so I’d better stay away from it and call the professionals.

I made money that covered my rent and meals for nearly four months. And believe me, LA isn’t cheap—especially when you’re crammed in a shared house with ten other people, paying $900 a month for a bunk bed with a curtain and no-so-quiet nights.

But beyond that, I learned a lot about people. Once again, I was reminded that Bulgarians are a peculiar breed. We do things that other people simply don’t—or at least not like that. Out of it, I even found sparks of inspiration. I wrote a few poems—nothing special, maybe—but reflections that helped me process the chaos.

As has become tradition here, I end with poetry. Not the ones I scribbled back then, but something written in the thick of this story—as always—with a haiku to match:

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To Want More Than What You Need

From a speck of dust to a gilded throne;
he gives, he takes—king crowned alone.
Power misread beneath a glittering crown,
his noblemen perform, obedient, yet frown.

To each, a place is preordained and made;
for others, choice is never freely weighed:
“To thee, to thee, to thee,” he boldly commands,
his word is law—no pope but godly is his hand.

The king does as he pleases—arrogant, unscrambled;
yes, he reigns—a sovereign with his cheap standards.
In his absence, his counselors are laughing obscenely,
then strut like guards when he’s around and screaming.

They bow to the “bread” that feeds their every need;
the king may build, destroy, or maybe plant a seed.
Self-respect is bartered for toil under his command,
he is might—but a king often dies by his own hand.

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Where Is the End (Haiku)

Glitter blinds our eyes,
treasure lingers left behind—
choice weighs undefined.

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No takeaways today.

Just this: do the best you can with what’s in your hands. Respect people—for what they bring, for what they take (because that teaches too). Learn who lifts you up and who holds you back. And maybe, just maybe, keep a few doors cracked open—especially the ones you almost slammed shut.

I wonder how many of you have gone through similarly confusing situations? Maybe even worse.

I was a hustling fool, but free to do as I wish—maybe in way still am. I crawled, burned, bounced—now I’m here.

DABOIS, that’s just another page in my weird book of life. How about you?

Thank you for being here—for god knows what time.

Yours partially tanned,
Ivaniel “Burnt By The Sun, Not-So-Efficient Solar Tech” Georgiev